


The Best Way to Predict the Future (Is To Create It)

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9873350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: It's 2030, and Yuri has just made his Olympic coaching debut with his protege, Lutz Nishigori, when he meets someone he hasn't seen for a very long time.Written for Otayuri Week 2017, Day Three: Future.





	

Yuri never knew why Yakov got so stressed out at competitions. 

Sure, his skaters' results reflected on him, and if they did well, his reputation would grow and he could charge more in coaching fees. But at the end of the day, it was Yuri—or Mila, or Georgi, or Victor—who was out there, winning medals or busting their asses in front of the world. 

Now, Yuri knows how he felt. The person on the ice is the one with all the control. Standing on the sidelines, you can do nothing but watch as the skater you've poured so much of your energy, your life, into takes the stage. At that point, the coach is powerless. Yuri really fucking hates being powerless. 

“Come on!” Yuri yells one last time, clapping his gloved hands together. Lutz Nishigori glances over her shoulder. She nods once, her heavily made up face creased in determination. Then, the music starts. 

If he hadn't been wearing the leather gloves—a gift from Victor, to commemorate Yuri's first Olympics as a coach—Yuri would have chewed his fingernails to shreds. As it is, he mentally skates Lutz's free program along with her, bouncing on the floor when she takes her jumps and pumping his fists triumphantly in the air when she lands every one. He's close enough to the media section that he can hear some idiot commentators tittering when she executes her second perfect triple Lutz. 

“Shut up and watch,” he yells at them. The media have been tittering about Lutz's name since her breakout junior season, which makes Yuri furious. It's not her fault her parents were crazy. 

They still are, but they're also supportive. Yuuko and Takeshi sit in the stands, holding a giant Japanese flag between them. Lutz's sisters are there, too, waving homemade signs. They all skated competitively when they were young, but while Axel and Loop moved on to other things—social media stardom and marketing studies at Kyushu University respectively—Lutz had the talent and the determination to go all the way. She was the one who showed up on Yuri's doorstep in St. Petersburg and told him, “I want you to coach me to an Olympic gold medal.” She sounded so sure of herself, so positive Yuri had the ability to do that, that he agreed before he realized what he was getting himself into. Three years later, he's still not sure he made the right choice.

Regardless, Lutz couldn't have had a better free skate. She knows it. The moment the music stops, she bursts into tears, sobbing into the gauzy, transparent fabric of her costume's sleeves. Flowers and stuffed toys rain down onto the ice. An exceptionally loud voice yells, “We love you, Lutz!” in Russian-accented Japanese. Yuri glances up at Victor. He's sitting beside the Nishigoris, with his husband and their two kids. Katsudon is gripping Yuuko's free hand. Lutz blows them a kiss, bows elegantly to all sides of the stadium, and skates off the ice.

Yuri's waiting for her. He gathers her into his arms and she buries her face in his shoulder. He's going to have makeup smeared on his new coat, but he doesn't care. Yuri blinks back his own tears, his heart pounding like it's going to burst. Four GPF gold medals, three World Championships, an Olympic gold medal of his own, and Yuri has never felt prouder. Everything he and Lutz have been through together, all the work and the disagreements and the travel, the long, long days and longer nights, have been leading to this moment. Now that it's here, it doesn't feel like anything he's ever experienced before.

“Come on.” Yuri pulls away, roughly wiping his eyes. Hopefully, none of the cameras in their faces caught that. Taking Lutz by the arm, he leads her into the Kiss and Cry to await the results. 

She was in first place after the short program, which is why she has the honour of skating last. The margin between her and the Canadian skater, Tessa Pelletier, is small, but Pelletier didn't have the flawless free skate Lutz did. As they wait, Lutz clings to Yuri, her little hand squeezing his so hard it hurts. He squeezes right back.

Time stretches on, and on. Yuri doesn't remember it ever taking this long to post the scores. When he was skating himself, it always felt so quick. He barely had chance to catch his breath, it seemed, and he was either celebrating or cursing. 

At long last, there's a warning beep, and the numbers appear on the screen in front of them. Both the artistic and the technical marks are personal bests for Lutz, but that's not what Yuri's eye lands on. He's fixated on the little numeral beside Lutz's name. _2_. 

“What?” Yuri jumps up, letting go of Lutz so roughly, she nearly falls off her seat. She rights herself, smiling and waving at the crowd that's split between cheers and boos at the injustice of her score. She's the picture of sportsmanship, but Yuri sees red. 

It's a short walk between the Kiss and Cry and the judges' table. Not long enough for Yuri to compose a dignified, mature complaint, so he settles for, “What do you morons think you're doing? Are you blind?” The judges stare. One opens her mouth, like she's going to reply. Yuri doesn't let her. “Lutz landed three triples in the second half of her program! And Pelletier fell. She fucking fell. How can you justify that?” Rage fills Yuri the way it used to when he was young. His hands shake, and his head pounds. Nothing and nobody else exists. He's ready to commit murder. He'll strangle every last one of these idiotic and probably corrupt judges with his bare hands. He'll make them regret ever thinking they were the least bit qualified to judge skating when clearly they know absolutely fuck all about it, he'll...

A hand on Yuri's shoulder derails his train of thought. “Fuck off, Victor,” he snaps, without turning around. Victor can go fuck himself. Yuri is not going to let this slide. 

“Yuri,” a voice replies. It's calm, steady and familiar, and it's not Victor. 

Yuri looks back. Otabek Altin, of all people, is standing behind him. That shocking sight is enough to snap Yuri out of his fury. He gapes at Otabek as two security guards in uniform come running up beside them. 

“It's all right.” Otabek waves them down. “He's fine now, and he apologizes for his unsportsmanlike outburst. Right, Yuri?” 

Yuri grinds his teeth. The Nishigoris are making their way down the stairs to meet Lutz. Axel has her phone pointed at Yuri, he notices, so the video of his meltdown will no doubt be up on her world-famous blog within minutes, gaining her more hits and more ad revenue. 

One of the security guards takes a pair of handcuffs off her belt, which is so fucking stupid that Yuri grunts an insincere, “Sorry,” in the vague direction of the judges. 

“Thank you for your help.” Otabek nods dismissively. The guards glance at one another. “Thank you,” Otabek repeats, in that fucking serene tone of his. The guards walk off, casting wary glances behind them, like they still think Yuri's going to leap over the table and rip out a judge's throat with his teeth. Yuri can't say for sure that he won't. 

With a hand on Yuri's shoulder, Otabek steers him away from the judges and out of sight, into an empty corridor beneath the stands. As soon as they get there, Yuri wrenches his arm away and screams, just to hear it echo off the cement walls. His heart is still hammering, his breath coming in short gasps. “It's a fucking travesty,” he barks. Otabek hums soothingly. Yuri tries to resist, but despite everything, despite all they went through, Otabek can still get to him. He tries to hold onto it, but he feels the anger ebbing away, replaced by a hollow feeling he knows all too well: disappointment. 

“She skated very well,” Otabek says. It only makes things worse. “You should be proud.” 

Yuri knows that. He is. But Lutz deserves better. She deserves that gold medal. She earned it. “What the fuck are you doing here, anyway?” As far as Yuri knows, Otabek hasn't had anything to do with the skating world for years. Of course, he's not exactly up-to-date with the latest goings-on in Otabek's life. 

“I'm the _chef de mission_ for the Kazakh Olympic team. It's not a large team,” Otabek adds, modestly. “There are only sixteen of us.” 

“You don't have any ladies' skaters.” 

“No,” Otabek admits, resting one hand lightly on Yuri's arm. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri can see him staring, but he refuses to meet Otabek's gaze. “I came here because I heard you were coaching.” 

Yuri doesn't know how he's meant to feel about that. He tries to think of something to say, and lands on, “Does your wife approve?” It's harsh. Harsher than Yuri meant to be, but now the words are out there, he's not going to take them back. 

“The medal ceremony will be starting soon.” Otabek removes his hand. Yuri deserves that, but that doesn't mean it feels good. “You should get out there. You don't want to miss it.” 

“No, I don't.” Yuri straightens his coat. He's not the kind of coach who dresses up. Normally, he's in a leather jacket and jeans, but for Lutz's Olympic debut, he let Victor buy him a coat and an expensive button-up shirt along with the gloves. If it wasn't for the blond ponytail and the ring in his eyebrow, Yuri would barely recognize himself. 

“Maybe you and I could get together later,” Otabek suggests. 

Now, Yuri looks at him. Otabek has aged in the last five years, of course. He has a few light lines around his eyes, and the undercut that saw him through his twenties has grown out into a more uniform, neatly trimmed style. His experiment with the mustache has ended, Yuri is glad to see, and his clean-shaven face looks like it would still be smooth to the touch. Yuri doesn't test the theory. 

“What could I possibly have to say to you?” Yuri means the words to hurt—he wants them to hurt—but Otabek's expression remains stoic. 

“Okay. If you change your mind, I have the same phone as I always did.” 

Yuri smiles a little, even as he walks away. If there's anybody in the world who would still have the same phone after fifteen years, it's Otabek Altin. 

“She got a personal best,” Katsudon reminds him, as they watch Lutz bend her head to receive her silver medal. She looks up, beaming, and props her bouquet in one arm so she can wave to the crowd.“You can't ask more than that.” 

“I can ask that the judges do their fu...” Yuri glances down at Katsudon and Victor's six-year-old twins, Alexei and Ayako, and censors himself. “Their jobs.” 

“It's the name of the game, Yuri.” Victor's got one arm around Katsudon's waist. He throws the other over Yuri's shoulders. “Like we always say, if we wanted a sport that's judged purely scientifically, we would have become speed skaters.” 

“Who always says that? You?” It's the first Yuri's heard of it. He does, however, remember Victor throwing an epic fit when his beloved husband lost the 2019 Worlds to Seung Gil Lee by a margin of an eighth of a point. 

Before Yuri can remind Victor of this, Victor says, “I see Otabek is in town.” 

“Vitya...” Katsudon raises his eyebrows meaningfully. Just like that, it's as if Yuri is sixteen years old again and Victor and Katsudon are the adults who whisper and nudge one another and act like they know what's best for Yuri when, in fact, they don't have a fucking clue. 

Well, Yuri's not sixteen any more. “You're right, _Vitya_ ,” he replies, turning so he doesn't have to see Tessa fucking Pelletier climbing onto the top of the podium. “But I won't be speaking to him again.” 

“All right.” Victor nods sagely, like that was what he expected Yuri to say. Yuri clenches his fists in his pockets. “If you think that's for the best.”

“You don't know anything about it.” 

“I know that you were very much in love, at one time.”

“I'm sorry, did I ask for your opinion on any of this?” 

As if he couldn't get more infuriating, Victor raises a finger to his own lips, silently shushing Yuri like he's a disrespectful child. They stand in silence as O Canada—a song Yuri will forever associate with J.J. Leroy, even though he's competed against plenty of other Canadians over the years—plays and the Canadian, Japanese and Chinese flags are hoisted into the rafters. 

After the press conference, at which Yuri says nothing and lets Lutz speak, eloquently as always, for herself, the Nishigoris want to go out to celebrate. Yuri tries to decline, but Lutz won't let him. “You have to come with us,” she insists. “You're the reason I got my medal.” 

“I wouldn't say that.” Mostly because it isn't true. There is no credit to take here. Maybe if he'd been a better coach, she'd have got the medal she wanted. The one she deserves. 

“I would,” Yuuko breaks in, smiling. She's barely changed in the fourteen years Yuri's known her. “Come on, Yuri. We have a lot to be happy about.” 

“Yeah,” Takeshi adds, embracing Lutz. “My little girl's an Olympic medallist. How many dads can say that, huh?” 

He says it again as they ride the subway to the restaurant, and then again as they're seated. The servers are appropriately awed to have a silver medallist in their midst, and Lutz has to take a gauntlet of selfies before they can even order their drinks. Yuri, sitting at the far end of the table between Alexei and Ayako, keeps his head down and helps the kids colour in a slightly disturbing picture of smiling spaghetti on their children's menu. While, in a typical moment of oversharing, Victor admitted he's their biological father, Yuri can see nothing but Katsudon in the kids, in their sweet, chubby faces and their little round glasses. 

When Ayako drops her red crayon, Yuri leans over to get it. It's rolled out into the aisle between their table and the next, stopping beside a pair of highly polished black shoes. As Yuri straightens up, he sees that the shoes are attached to dark pants, which are attached to a blue shirt, which is being worn by Otabek Altin. 

Victor speaks first.“Otabek!” He calls, far more loudly than necessary. He's already half-drunk, it seems. Years of marriage and fatherhood haven't tempered that particular habit. “What a surprise!” 

Everyone at the table turns to stare. Otabek stands a little taller, squaring his shoulders under the scrutiny. “Good evening. I didn't know you would be here,” Otabek sounds a little defensive. “Congratulations, Lutz.” 

“Thanks.” Lutz beams, even as Victor says, “Would you like to join us?” He really, really doesn't know when to shut up. 

“Ah, no. Thank you. I'm...I'm eating with some of my team. Just over there.” Otabek points to a table in the corner, as if, Yuri thinks, he needs to prove his words. A group of men and women in blue and yellow uniforms are looking over menus and laughing together. “I just wanted to, ah, offer my congratulations.” He nods briskly and all but runs back to his table. Yuri sighs and hands the crayon to Ayako, purposefully ignoring the look of doe-eyed sympathy Katsudon is attempting to thrust upon him. 

Throughout the meal, Yuri can't help but cast glances in Otabek's direction. He seems to be enjoying himself. He's never been the exuberant type, and he isn't now, but Yuri sees him smiling and even laughing, once or twice, with his teammates. They're too far away for Yuri to hear what they're saying. In the five years since he and Otabek broke up, he's lost what little Kazakh he knew, anyway. 

One of the times Yuri looks over, Otabek is gesturing. The restaurant lights glint off his watch, which Yuri recognizes immediately as the one he gave him for their first anniversary. That shocks Yuri, a little, but not as much as the next thing he notices: the watch is the only article of jewellery Otabek is wearing. His wedding ring is gone. 

As soon as he realizes it, Yuri jerks his head away. He needs to focus on something else, so he takes his knife and cuts Alexei's vegetables, even as the boy protests, “I can do it myself, oji-chan!” Katsudon glances over at them. 

“I know you can, kid. Just thought I'd give you a hand.” Yuri forces a smile and cuts Alexei's carrots and cauliflower into ribbons, until Victor hollers, “Darling, you must try this fish!” at his husband, and Katsudon finally looks away.

Yuri and the others are nearly finished their desserts when Otabek gets up from his table and crosses the restaurant in the direction of the mens' room. Yuri's clearly not the only one who notices. Otabek's barely out of sight before Katsudon is leaning over Alexei, reaching for the sugar packets. With one graceful motion, he knocks the dregs of his son's bowl of chocolate ice cream into Yuri's lap. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Katsudon says, as Alexei cries out in complaint and Yuri holds back a curse. The melted ice cream is seeping into the front of his pants, cold and sticky against his skin. “Do forgive me, Yuri.” He sounds about as apologetic as Victor does when he gets caught letting himself into Yuri's place with his emergency key because he's bored and feels like nosing around someone else's house. That is to say, not at all. “I would wash that off right away,” Katsudon suggests, eyes wide with false innocence. “You don't want the stain to set.” 

“This is why you should always have a napkin in your lap, Yurio,” Victor adds, helpfully. Yuri sighs, loudly, and stands. He's known Katsudon for nearly fifteen years, Victor for longer. Why their incessant need to meddle still comes as a surprise, he doesn't know. 

Otabek's at a urinal when Yuri opens the door. He'd hoped the mens' room would be full, so he and Otabek wouldn't have to speak. Of course, Yuri isn't that lucky. He and Otabek are the only ones there. Without so much as glancing in Otabek's direction, Yuri wets a paper towel and dabs at the stain on his pants. He says nothing when Otabek steps up to the next sink and washes his hands. Otabek pulls a paper towel from the dispenser, opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it again. “That looks bad,” he says, at last. 

“Mm.” Yuri agrees. 

“I hope it doesn't set. Those are great pants.” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

Otabek tosses his towel into the bin, but he makes no move to leave. Yuri, who has by now dabbed so much his pants are soaking, takes another, dry, towel and attempts to sop up the excess. “The kids are getting big,” Otabek says. “Ayako and Alexei, I mean.” 

“Yeah,” Yuri repeats. _That's what happens when you've been gone for five years_ , he adds, silently and scornfully. The last time Otabek saw the kids, they were babies. He even helped Yuri take care of them one afternoon, when Victor and Katsudon were in St. Petersburg. Otabek juggling the crying twins while Yuri tried desperately to use a shitty translation app to read the directions on a package of Japanese infant formula was one of Yuri's more stressful memories. It was also, strangely, one of his favourite. At least, it was until Otabek chose to taint all of their memories with one big, nuclear blast. 

“How's Deadmau5?” 

The pants are a lost cause. Yuri throws the paper into the bin and pulls down his shirt, hoping that's enough to cover the wet patch. It isn't. “She's fine.” The cat, hilariously named by an American friend in Otabek's DJ circle, was tiny when Otabek gave her to Yuri nine years ago, small enough to fit in Yuri's cupped hands. Now, Yuri has to haul her around like a sack of rocks. Needless to say, she's never been anywhere near a mouse. “Old and fat,” Yuri adds, risking a glance at Otabek. It's a mistake. Otabek smiles, and Yuri immediately turns away. 

“Like me, then.” Otabek slaps his flat stomach. 

Yuri's had about enough of this. They were never a passive-aggressive couple. They never danced around problems or hid from arguments. If something was wrong, they yelled and screamed and hashed everything out, and then it was over. They aren't a couple now, they haven't been for years, but surely, Yuri thinks, they haven't changed that much? 

“Are you still married?” He asks. 

If Otabek is taken aback by his bluntness, he doesn't show it. "No."

“Since when?” 

“About a year.” 

“Why?” 

“I think you know why, Yura. Yuri,” he corrects himself, but it's too late. The nickname sets something alight in Yuri, something that's been smouldering since he saw Otabek again. 

“Of course I fucking know why, _Beka_. You never should have married her in the first place.” 

“You're right.” 

“Huh. Would have been nice if you'd said that five years ago.” Yuri remembers exactly what Otabek did say that day. It's burned into his mind. _I'm sorry, I have to do this for my family. I can't let them down._ The implication being, of course, that the opinion of Otabek's family, who he rarely saw, was more important than Yuri, the man Otabek had been in love with for over a decade. Even though he and and Yuri had shared a bed, an apartment, a daily life, for half that time. 

“Yuri.” Otabek looks tired, and that's really fucking rich. How many nights, Yuri wonders, did he lie awake wondering what he could possibly have done to save their relationship? “I know I don't have the right to ask for anything. But,” Otabek goes on, quickly, before Yuri can wholeheartedly agree, “I would be very grateful if you would give me the chance to say a proper good-bye.” 

“Good-bye? You left me five years ago!” 

“And I did it very poorly.” 

“You're not fucking kidding.” Otabek opens his mouth to reply, but Yuri shakes his head. “No. I don't care what you have to say. Fuck off.” He can't stand to be near Otabek anymore. Yuri feels physically ill at the sight of him. He has to get out of there, immediately. 

So he does. Without saying anything else, Yuri storms out of the bathroom. He wants to leave the restaurant completely, but he stops by the table first. “I'm going back to the hotel,” he snaps.

“I'll come with you.” Katsudon hurries to get up. “It's time the kids were in bed, anyway. If you don't mind waiting just a moment...”

“No,” Yuri says, flatly, and goes. He more than half-expects Katsudon or Victor to follow him, wittering like overly concerned birds, asking him what the matter is and how they can help. When he gets outside the restaurant, however, Yuri realizes he's alone. _Fine_ , he thinks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. _That's fine._ The last thing he wants is people asking questions. He doesn't want to talk about anything with anyone. He wants to be alone.

Which is just as well, because that's exactly how he's spent the last five years. 

***

Yuri wants to hate Otabek. He's tried to. At first, when the wound of his betrayal was fresh and painful, Yuri threw himself into other relationships. He hoped that being with someone else would convince him this was a positive development in his life, and he was better off without Otabek. First came J.J., who was on a “relationship break” from his wife. That was about as disastrous as Yuri would have expected, if he'd been anywhere near in his right mind. Even though he was bisexual, J.J. wanted someone who would wear pretty lingerie and jewellery with J.J.'s name on it, who would endure his grand romantic gestures and fawn over him like a fan. That wasn't Yuri, so J.J. went back to Isabella. 

Next came Akahito Nakashima, a friend of Katsudon's. He was the same age as Yuri but seemed much older, a responsible corporate man who took Yuri on responsible, adult dates and treated him like a responsible adult. Yuri had thought he wanted that—that was part of Otabek's appeal, after all, that he'd never treated Yuri like a kid even when he was one—but there was a fine line, it turned out, between grown up and deathly boring. Yuri broke it off after an excruciatingly dull outing to a noh theatre. The fact that Victor and Katsudon were overly invested in that particular relationship hadn't helped matters, either. Yuri didn't try again after that. He was, he decided, too busy coaching Lutz to deal with relationships. 

Yuri has never been much of a drinker. He prefers to let Victor embody that national stereotype, but when he gets back to the hotel room, he finds he needs something. He opens the mini-bar and takes out a little bottle of vodka. It goes down so quickly and smoothly, he takes the other one, then an even smaller bottle of white rum. As he's contemplating the final offering in the mini-bar, a demi bottle of white wine, there's a knock on the door. 

“Who is it?” Yuri calls, warily. 

“It's me,” Lutz replies. He goes over and opens the door. “Are you all right?” She looks at him anxiously, which makes him feel like all kinds of shit. Lutz just won an Olympic medal, even if it wasn't the one she should have got. She shouldn't be worrying about her fucking coach's mental state. 

“I'm fine,” Yuri says. Then, when she still looks skeptical, “Fine. Really.” 

“Good. Because I don't want to have to find another coach.” 

“You should take some time, Lutz. Think things over.” 

“Think about what?”

“You didn't get the gold.” Three years ago, that was the deal he and she had struck, sitting in a Teremok fast food restaurant two blocks from Yuri's apartment. Yuri would move to Japan and coach Lutz to an Olympic gold medal. He'd failed. 

“I know.” Lutz looks at him evenly. “That means we've got four years to make sure the next one's mine.” 

“You...I mean...” Yuri doesn't know what to say. After a disappointing competition, he'd always passed through a period of days, sometimes weeks, of hating everything about skating, of wanting to never look at the ice again, of wondering why he'd wasted his entire life on something that would never bring him joy. And Lutz is already eager to start over? 

“You're not quitting, are you?” Lutz fixes him with a stare, like she's daring him to give her the wrong answer. In the end, no matter how much he sometimes wanted to, quitting was something Yuri never did. Bad knees finished him off. If it hadn't been for them, Yuri thinks he would probably still be skating competitively now, at nearly twenty-nine. 

Lutz doesn't wait for him to speak. “So let's do it. When we go out, it's going to be on my terms.” She sounds so confident that, not for the first time, Yuri wonders how the fuck she does it. He was never that sure of himself, not deep down like she seems to be. He still isn't, although he always tried to act it. He doesn't think many people are fooled. “Are you in?” 

“I...” Yuri sighs. He can't talk about this right now; he doesn't even want to think about it. “I'll talk to you in the morning, Lutz.” 

Her stare doesn't waver. After a long moment, she sighs, almost imperceptibly, and says, “Good night, Yuri.” He waits until she's halfway down the hall before he shuts the door and picks up the wine. 

It's horrible, sour and fruity all at once. While he drinks, chugging it directly from the bottle, Yuri thinks about what Lutz said. “When we go out, it's going to be on my terms.” That wasn't an opportunity Yuri had with Otabek. When Otabek left, it was on his terms. He wasn't even in the country. He'd gone to Almaty to bury his father. Yuri was left behind, because, “The last thing my mother needs right now is to deal with the issue of you and me, Yura.” That hurt, a lot, but Yuri tried to be grown up about it. Against his better judgment and every instinct in his body, he let Otabek go alone. 

After three days of ignored text messages and unanswered Skype calls, Otabek called, tearful and apologetic but inviting no argument, to inform Yuri that he would be marrying a girl his family had found for him, the daughter of his father's best friend, and settling back in Kazakhstan. He would send for his things, he said. He never did. With Mila's help, Yuri burned it all—clothes, books, everything—on an Ivan Kupala Day bonfire. The vinyl records were the best. They melted like goopy black cheese on a pizza from hell. 

Now, it's five years too late. _Still,_ Yuri thinks, _better late than not at all._ If Otabek wants to talk, then they will fucking talk, all right. On Yuri's terms. At last. 

Yuri slips on his earpiece and folds the little transparent screen down over his eye. He's waiting for implantable tech to become available, so he can finally fuse his phone with his body. They keep promising it, but so far it hasn't arrived. This is as good as it gets. Flicking his eye from one letter to the next, Yuri composes a quick text message. He sends his hotel and room number to Otabek, then adds, _pick me up on a motorcycle._ These are his terms, after all. 

Otabek doesn't reply. He also doesn't come. An hour stretches into two. Disappointment festers in Yuri. He tries to alchemize it into anger, the way he did when Otabek first walked out, but it resists. He had, he realizes, hoped Otabek might actually be serious about wanting to say a proper good-bye. 

Just as Yuri's about to give up, there's a knock on the door. Yuri opens it to see Otabek, pink-cheeked and out of breath. “Sorry,” he gasps. “I had a hard time finding somewhere that would rent me a motorcycle.” 

Yuri blinks. “Oh.” 

“But I've got one. Where do you want to go?” 

Yuri supposes he should choose a place. This meeting is about his terms, after all, but nothing springs to mind. “Anywhere,” he says, finally. It's not about the location. It's what they're going to say to one another that's important.

“Okay.” Otabek nods and holds up a motorcycle helmet. It's painted in a black and white zebra pattern. Not Yuri's preferred motif, but he takes it anyway. “You should grab a coat. I mean,” Otabek adds so quickly, Yuri assumes something showed on his face, “if you want. It's chilly out. I'm not trying to tell you what to do.” 

“Right.” Yuri takes his coat and follows Otabek downstairs. 

He doesn't recognize the brand of motorcycle. Yuri was never interested in them the way Otabek is, and after Otabek left, the last thing Yuri wanted to do was spend any time thinking about motorbikes. This bike is small, but Yuri doesn't put his arms around Otabek. He holds onto the sides, the way he did on that first ride in Barcelona, as Otabek revs the engine and peels away like he knows where he's going. 

Otabek was right about one thing: it is cold. Too cold for Yuri's coat to help much, as they whip along at speed. The city is alive, as befits a host city in the midst of the Olympics, but Otabek drives them away from the city centre, up a narrow road into some hills. It's not as picturesque as looking out over Barcelona, but when Otabek stops the bike in a quiet roadside layby, surrounded by thick, heavily scented pine trees and illuminated by the watery, yellowish light of a single street lamp, Yuri steps down. 

“Here.” Otabek pulls off his leather jacket. “You're shivering.” 

Yuri wants to deny it, just because he can, but it's true. A little glimmer of guilt passes through him as he pulls Otabek's jacket over top of his own, leaving Otabek in nothing but his shirtsleeves. _Well, too bad,_ Yuri thinks, determinedly. _This is about my terms._

Now that he's here, however, what seemed like a great idea back in the hotel room is looking less appealing by the moment. What are his terms? What does he actually want to say to Otabek? That he hates him? That's not true. That Otabek broke Yuri's heart? That is true, but Otabek surely knows it already. 

“I told my mother,” Otabek says suddenly, cutting off Yuri's thoughts. “About us. Too late, I know, but I did it.” 

“What did she say?” Yuri is genuinely curious. Otabek always maintained his family would disown him if they knew about his relationship with Yuri. Yuri, who had a grandfather who didn't approve but lived with it for Yuri's sake, was never particularly sympathetic about that. 

“She didn't like it.” No surprise there. “But she was more upset that I didn't tell her sooner. And that I treated you badly at the end.” Otabek sighs, his shoulders slumping. “She told me that wasn't how I was raised. That she and my father had taught me to be kind toward everyone, especially those I love.” 

“So you leaving me like that didn't make anyone happy.” 

“No.” 

“Hm.” Yuri should be glad about that, he supposes. Instead, it just makes what Otabek did feel pointless, as well as heartbreaking. “My grandfather died a couple of years ago,” Yuri says. Almost exactly two years ago, in fact, just before Lutz and Yuri left for her first senior Worlds. “I don't know if you knew that.” 

“I did. I was at the funeral.” 

“What?” Yuri jerks his head up. Otabek looks sincere, as always. It's not the kind of thing he would joke about. “I didn't see you.” 

“I sneaked in the back. I didn't stay long, but I wanted to pay my respects. He was always respectful to me. And I know how much he meant to you.” 

“Why didn't...” Yuri stops. Why didn't Otabek approach him? Does Yuri really wish he had? Or would that have just made the worst day of Yuri's life that much more unbearable? Would that have even been possible?

“I only saw Yuuri Katsuki,” Otabek says. “That is, he saw me. I didn't speak to him.” 

“He didn't tell Victor.” 

Otabek shrugs, but Yuri wasn't asking. He can't have done, otherwise Yuri would have known about it instantly. _Why not?_ Yuri wonders. He'd been under the impression Katsudon and Victor shared absolutely everything at this point, down to passwords and toothbrushes and probably, somehow, DNA. 

“I would...” Yuri begins, but he finds he can't finish the sentence. He doesn't know what he would have done in that situation. He'll never know, so it's pointless to think about it. Instead, Yuri changes tactics. “Do you still love me?” 

Otabek's expression doesn't change. “I never stopped.” _Same here_ , Yuri thinks. 

“I burned all your shit. Well, Mila helped.” The smallest of smiles quirks Otabek's lips. “It's not funny.”

“Did you enjoy it?” 

“Yes,” Yuri replies, although the truth is, “but not as much as I thought I would.” Except for those records. That was really fucking cool. 

Otabek raises an arm, like he wants to embrace Yuri. Yuri wouldn't mind if he did, he finds, but Otabek puts his arm back down, and Yuri doesn't move any closer. He's almost afraid to ask the next question, but if he doesn't do it now, when will he? “So, what?” He spits, aggressiveness his go-to reaction when he doesn't know how else to feel. “You expect us to get back together or something?” 

Otabek doesn't hesitate. “I want that more than anything. But I would never expect it.” 

“Good.” Yuri scowls. Just who the fuck does he think he is, anyway? There's no reason Otabek should be able to waltz back into Yuri's life like this after five years, as handsome and as sweet and as fucking charming as ever. “I'm settled in Japan now, you know. That's where I train Lutz.” At the former Ice Castle Hasetsu, renamed the Katsuki Yuuri Ice Skating Centre. “And it seems like I'll be there for a while. She wants to go for the next Olympics.” 

“Good for her.” 

“Yeah, well. If she wants to start over...” Then Yuri will be there, he guesses. It's not like he has anything else lined up. 

“But it's not starting over. Not really. You and she now have all the experiences that have brought you to this point.” Otabek looks at him. “We can never start over in life, Yura. Nothing is ever the same. We can't go back, we can only move forward.” He shivers a little. 

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Beka.” Yuri takes off the jacket and hands it back to him. He resists, for a moment, but Yuri pushes the jacket into his hands and Otabek relents. Nothing is ever the same, he repeats, to himself. _We can't go back, we can only move forward._ Trust Otabek to be so fucking insightful, even when he's the one who caused this mess. As he watches Otabek put on the jacket, Yuri knows, suddenly, exactly what he has to do. 

“Hi,” he says. Yuri holds out a hand, as if to shake Otabek's. Otabek takes it, looking at him curiously. It might be dumb—in fact, the longer Beka looks at him like that, the dumber it feels—but these are his terms. Yuri knows that now. “You might not remember me. We met at Yakov's summer camp a long time ago. I...I had the eyes of a fucking soldier.” 

Beka doesn't smile, but he squeezes Yuri's hand. “Of course I remember you, Yuri. How could I forget?” 

“Good.” A car passes by, driving too quickly for the narrow road. Yuri takes a deep breath, glad that the weak light probably hides the worst of his blush. “Do you want to be friends?” Beka doesn't reply. Instead, he wraps his arms around Yuri, gathering him in a tight hug. _I've missed this_ , Yuri thinks. He didn't realize just how much until this moment. “Is that a yes?” Yuri prompts, his voice muffled in Beka's shoulder. 

Beka pulls away. His eyes are wet, Yuri notices, but then Yuri's vision is blurring a little, too. “Thank you.” Yuri wants to kiss him, but it's too soon for that. They can't go back, only forward, and right now, they aren't at that place. Not yet, but they will be. Yuri's sure of it. 

“I'm a very high-maintenance friend,” he warns. 

Now, Beka smiles, really smiles, his face crinkling up into the grin he only ever shows to Yuri. “I will work very hard to be worthy of you.” 

“Good.” This is getting to be too much. Yuri strides over to the motorbike. “You can start by dropping me off at my hotel,” he orders. Beka scrambles to comply. “And if you're good about it,” Yuri adds, as Beka starts the bike, “I'll let you come back in the morning and bring me breakfast.” 

***

The next day, Yuri wakes up with a headache and approximately twelve thousand message notifications. A small percentage seem to be congratulating him on Lutz's medal. The rest are related to a video entitled “Figure skating coach goes crazy at the Olympics!!!” which has, naturally, gone viral. It's even been memed already. Yuri lies cringing in his bed, watching the video set to the driving beat of some electronic music—he had no idea he flailed his arms so much when he was angry, he looks completely unhinged—when a text from Lutz pops up. 

_Do you have an answer for me?_

Yuri hesitates, just for a moment, then flicks his eyes over the letters to form a reply. _Tell Axel I'm going to kill her._ He was at least going to demand a percentage of the advertising money her blog was no doubt raking in from that video. _And I want to see you this afternoon to talk about next season's programs._ There were only four years until the next Olympics, after all. They were going to pass in the blink of an eye. 

_I love you_ , Lutz replies immediately. Yuri blinks, a little taken aback. Had she really been that worried he'd abandon her? _I'll see you then_ , she adds, and signs off. 

Yuri scrolls through his contacts list until he finds Otabek. _I'm awake_ , he informs him. _And I'd like coffee and muesli. Please._ It's a sentimental choice, if a mundane one. Last time around, they'd woken up on their first “morning after” in Yuri's bed at Lilia's place, while she was away at a competition with another student. Her cupboards weren't exactly full of indulgent breakfast foods. 

_I'll be right there_ , Beka texts back. Yuri takes off the eyepiece, a warm feeling of satisfaction seeping through him. Once again, he's in control. That's where he wants to be, where he's happiest. _I should send Yakov a message_ , he thinks, idly. _I never told him how much I appreciated him._ But there will be time for that later. Now, Yuri leans back against the pillows and waits for Beka to arrive.

**Author's Note:**

> Virtual flowers and teddy bears for anyone who notices the four real-life figure skaters "hidden" in the names of the OCs. 
> 
> I'm on Tumblr [ here ](http://xx-gigi-sinclair-xx.tumblr.com).


End file.
